


A Promise Made To Myself

by SilkenAmbiguity



Series: This Song is For The Rats [1]
Category: South Park
Genre: Angst, Closeted Character, Denial, Explicit Language, F/M, Guilt, He's not gay okay?, Hurt No Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Masturbation, Multi, One-Sided Attraction, Sexual Confusion, Unrequited Love, or so it seems, super best friends, totally not gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-09-16 02:43:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16945458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilkenAmbiguity/pseuds/SilkenAmbiguity
Summary: Kyle is really, really deep in the closet. Stan is oblivious.





	A Promise Made To Myself

**Author's Note:**

> One of many prequels to a fic I'm writing, "This Song is For The Rats".

At recess time in a kindergarten sandbox, Stan Marsh and Kyle Broflovski declared themselves Super Best Friends. They shook on it and everything - that’s what adults did to confirm a deal, wasn’t it?

Of course, Kenny and Cartman were right there with them in the same sandbox, but they hadn’t been involved in the handshaking. It became an unspoken rule that it would always be StanKyle, Kenny and Cartman.

It wasn't that the pair of boys liked Kenny or Cartman any less, (okay, maybe they both liked Cartman significantly less,) so much as they liked each other _more._ The fact was that Super Best Friends were serious business. You could only have one.

 

For this reason, it came as a surprise to nobody when in first grade, Stan and Kyle got “married” out on the playground. In that moment it seemed like they owned the world. Kyle was rosy-cheeked and laughing, Stan was turning a little green, and the two of them vowed to be together forever.

Cartman called them fags. They didn’t yet understand the implications of Cartman’s accusation, and frankly, they didn’t care. They spent the rest of recess playing kings and castles on the jungle gym, vanquishing anyone who dared enter their kingdom. When Kyle arrived home, spouting tales of his newlywed to his family, Sheila simply pursed her lips.

 

Stan and Kyle's dynamic began to change when in third grade, Stan developed an interest in girls. More specifically, a girl named Wendy. Kyle didn’t get it. It’s not that he felt there was anything particularly repulsive about girls (he had gotten over his fear of cooties last year), but there wasn’t anything that great about them either.

Stan, however, seemed to think they were the next best thing since sliced bread. He spoke about Wendy _all_ the time; the way her hair looked that day, how he thought she might’ve smiled at him in class, or how he wanted to hold her hand. At first Kyle tried to be attentive, but it was an effort in futility. He found himself nodding absently every time Stan started rambling about her, pretending to listen and barely refraining from rolling his eyes.

He wanted to be supportive of his friend - he really did - but it was just so annoying. Couldn't they have a single conversation where Wendy wasn't the topic of discussion? Kyle resigned himself to his fate, however, when the pair started dating. Kyle told himself he didn't mind. Dating was a relatively trivial event for third graders, plus it made Stan happy. He could be happy for Stan, right? That’s what friends were for. He was determined to tolerate Stan's never ending Wendy-worship. It was no big deal.

 

In fifth grade, Kyle tried masturbating for the first time. "Tried" being the key word.

It started, like many of the lowest moments of Kyle Broflovski's life, with Eric Cartman. The boys at South Park Elementary had all begun jacking it on a regular, if not excessive basis. Much like everything else that the boys became obsessed with, it had to be publicly discussed in the cafeteria during lunch. Kyle was attempting to eat his mediocre cafeteria food while watching the conversation unfold with mild disgust.

"H-have you ever seen a girl squirt?" Jimmy had asked the table, who were mid-discussion of porn.

"Dude, I heard that when girls squirt they're actually peeing," Clyde whispered conspiratorially, with an air of mild horror, as though he was telling a ghost story.

Gagging, Kyle decided maybe it was time to chime in.

"Oh my god dude, that's nasty! Could you not talk about piss while I'm trying to eat my lunch? Jesus, Clyde."

Cartman smirked cruelly. Kyle had always thought he looked like some sort of evil cherub, or a Chucky doll with chocolate brown hair when he made that expression. It was a ugly, stupid expression. The ginger knew from experience that that particular look always preceded humiliation on his part. He hated it.

"You would be grossed out by porn, wouldn't you, Khal? I bet you haven't even touched yourself down there. Or maybe you have, and you thought about dudes the whole time. That hit closer to home, jewboy? Fuckin' sick," Eric snickered with laughter at the end.

Kyle felt himself turn as red as his hair. Sputtering indignantly, he refused to admit that no, he hadn't touched himself "down there" yet, and frankly, he wasn't intending on it. He scrambled to come up with a rebuttal. Before he could get a word in, Stan piped up in his defense.

"Fuck off, Cartman. I hope you love jerking off as much as you say, cause it's the most action you're ever gonna get. Besides, Kyle's not gay and you know it."

If anything, Kyle turned a darker shade of crimson.

"Yeah. Shut the fuck up, fatass. Maybe I just don't wanna stumble across another video of your skank mom," he hissed.

Later that night, he was laying in bed with clammy palms and a tightness in his chest. He didn't want to do it. He told himself he did - everyone else wanted to, why didn't he? - but he really didn't. There was a part of him that was afraid. It felt like this action would open the floodgates to things Kyle didn't want to know about himself.

Of course, he was in fifth grade, so he didn't yet realize that this was the reason behind his shaking hands and nausea. He simply assumed he wasn't interested in sex. He tried touching himself anyways, because as always, Kyle just _had_ to prove Cartman wrong. He slipped his hand into his boxers and wrapped his fingers around his flaccid penis. He gave it a few experimental, reluctant strokes. Nothing. _Fuck this and fuck Eric Cartman_ , he decided furiously.

No further attempts at masturbation were made that year.

 

In seventh grade, Kyle was pretty certain that he was asexual. He didn’t tell anyone - not even Stan - because he didn’t want the guys to feel weird about him.

He knew that Craig and Tweek were out as gay, and Kenny was bi or something like that, and because of it the boys got weird around them sometimes. He heard the hushed whispers that followed those three around the hallways, drowned out beneath the town's supposed “acceptance”.

South Park had been becoming more progressive on the outside, but on the inside the mountain town was filled with the same bigots that had always lived there. Some things never changed.

The point was, despite the fact that Kyle was definitely not gay, he didn't want to come out as asexual and give anyone a reason to whisper about _him_ in the halls. He had enough of people whispering about him at home, after all.

Sheila had become increasingly worried about his lack of interest in girls. He'd often seen her frowning at him when she thought he wasn't looking, fretting and pensive. She would not-so-subtly ask him if there were any cute girls in his class, a steely look behind the warmth of her gaze that made Kyle feel like he was being interrogated.

The dinner table became a court and Kyle had to lie, bold-faced under oath. He would sit straighter in his chair, roll his food around on his plate, and speak stiltedly about his lab partner Heidi. She was pretty, smart and kind. He really did like her, just not in the way his mother wanted him to. Sheila smiled, nodded, and eased up on the questioning for a while.

Worse than his mother's concern was Ike's knowing looks. His lips would turn up into a smile, but his eyes were sad. Filled with pity and condescension, like he knew something about Kyle that the older boy hadn't yet realized. It was ridiculous. His little brother had no right to look so patronizing at such a young age. Ike flashed him one of those smiles as Kyle left the dinner table.

That night Kyle told himself, as he had been for a while now, that there was nothing wrong with him. It was perfectly fine not to feel sexual attraction. Besides, even if he was asexual, at least he wasn't gay. If he was, Sheila would throw an absolute fit. He's not, though. He just didn't like girls _or_ boys, and that was perfectly fine by him.

 

In ninth grade, Stan and Wendy had a falling out. They had been going strong for three years this time - aeons for a teenage couple - and Stan was absolutely wrecked when Wendy said they should take a break. As usual, Kyle was left to pick up the pieces. If he was honest, he didn't really mind it - putting Stan Marsh back together. It meant that for the first time in three years, his best friend was entirely his again.

He slept over to Stan’s house that night, and his friend wasn't distracted all night texting Wendy on his phone. Sure, instead he was crying about how Wendy broke his heart, but a selfish part of Kyle liked it this way.

Even if Stan was miserable, he was miserable with Kyle. Even if Stan was piss drunk, he was piss drunk with his head in Kyle's lap. Even if Stan was snotting and crying, he was snotting and crying while Kyle ran his fingers through his dark, greasy hair. The redhead had every ounce the other boy's attention.

“Kyle?” Stan had asked, turning his head to look up at the other through puffy, bruised eyes. There were tear tracks on his flushed cheeks and his hat was long gone, tossed across the room somewhere.

“Yeah?” Kyle had hummed encouragingly.

“I really appreciate you, man. I, like... fucking love you, dude,” the noirette had slurred.

The sincerity in his voice and the adoration in his gaze was like a punch in the gut for Kyle. His chest had tightened and his lungs felt constricted. ~~His dick definitely did not twitch.~~ All of a sudden he felt horribly guilty. How could he have ever felt happy that his friend was in this state? What kind of person is relieved when their Super Best Friend goes on a bender?

“That's pretty gay, dude,” Kyle choked out a laugh.

Stan giggled, “Yeah, kind of.”

Eventually Stan passed out. Kyle spent the rest of the night staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep and feeling sick to his stomach. Funny thing was, he hadn't drank a drop of alcohol.

Stan and Wendy got back together the next week.

 

By eleventh grade, Kyle was tired. He had close to the top marks in his class - second only to Wendy Testaburger. He wasn't bitter about it, because she worked hard and she deserved those grades. Kyle was never bitter about anything involving Wendy anymore. In fact, he considered them pretty good friends, all things considered.

When Kyle saw Wendy and Stan together in the hallways, or at Stan's football games, or at parties, he would smile at them and wave. Sometimes he would go over and chat with them, discussing the latest gossip or asking Stan if they were still on for their study session that weekend.

He would look at them and see the perfect couple: The All-American Boy-Next-Door and the Overachieving Manic Pixie Dream Girl. He's knows there's more to them than that, (after all, he's friends with them both,) but from an outsider's perspective, that's how they come across. Kyle could almost picture the life they would live together. There would be a white picket fence, a couple of unfairly attractive youngsters running around, and Stan would quit drinking.

But then Kyle would go home. He would head up to his bedroom and lock the door behind him. He would crawl into his bed fully clothed, bringing the blankets up over his head for yet another layer of protection - the bolted door, the closed blinds, the pitch black room, it wasn't enough to hide him from himself.

Underneath his thick duvet, Kyle would undo his pants. He would screw his eyes shut, because he didn't want to see, didn't want to face the reality of what he was doing, and he would pull out his cock. It was hot and hard in his palm. He squeezed, whimpering as it throbbed in response.

There, in the dark where nobody could judge him, he thought about peach skin and toned muscles. He thought about broad shoulders and boyish smiles and dark hair. He thought about the smell of Axe and sweat, and blue eyes crinkling in laughter. He thought about the black trail of hair that he'd seen leading down from his friend's belly button, and fuck, Kyle felt so close.

He thought about a warm cheek pressed into his thigh, and a drunken declaration of love. Not the kind of love Kyle wanted, but still, it's this memory that sends him over the edge every time.

Kyle would clean himself up afterwards, the afterglow of his orgasm ruined by the ocean of guilt he drowned in. In the deafening silence of his room, Kyle's hiccuping breaths always seemed that much louder. _I'm not gay,_ the jewish boy thought to himself, _I'm not gay. I'm not gay. I'm not gay._ He would repeat this like a mantra in his head, a promise he was determined to keep.

He would continue plying himself with his own personal propaganda, until the next time he locked his door with pants that felt too tight and a heart that was beating too fast.

 

_I'm not gay._


End file.
